


practical magic

by Archadian_Skies



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Mutual Pining, Witches, this is like the book/film chocolat but with magic involved lmao, witch is a gender neutral term, you can fight me about it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-17 13:11:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16517111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archadian_Skies/pseuds/Archadian_Skies
Summary: There’s a cafe on the corner of Ravenwood and Sylleblossom called Jericho run by a witch named Simon who, apparently, always knows not what you want but what you need. There’s magic baked into the pastries and brewed into the teas; there’s a cupcake iced with daydreams and a chai that tastes like self-confidence; there’s eclairs sprinkled with giddiness and an espresso that lingers with determination.The cafe’s old weathered sign is in the shape of a ship, and ask anyone why it’s the most popular place in town and they’ll say it’s because at Jericho you can be yourself. At Jericho you can be free.





	practical magic

She bursts in, a whirlwind, the North wind, and places a chest onto the table and a kiss on his cheek.

“Welcome back, North.” Simon places a glass in her hand and a kiss on her temple in return. “How fares the world against your tyranny?”

“Oh it’s holding up,” she downs half the glass in a gulp, “but only just.”

“Of course it is.” He smiles as the fatigue seeps out of her skin and the knots untangle from her shoulders. “What have you brought me this time?”

“Snowdrops and spring morning dew.” She opens the chest and gestures at the flowers bundled with twine and little vials filled with twinkling liquid. “Mountain lavender and cave roots, evening mist and summer midday oil.”

They work together to unpack the contents of the chest, North chattering away about her latest adventures and Simon prodding curiously at her words every now and then to coax more detail.

“Have you heard?” North sits on his workbench as he puts the last of the vials into the cabinet. “The shop across the cafe has been bought.”

“By whom?” Simon paws around, elbow deep in a cupboard before pulling out a soft cloth sack. “Last I heard it was going to be converted into a home.”

“It’s going to be a home and _studio_.” North corrects, eyes sparkling with excitement. “For Carl Manfred.”

Simon almost drops the sack, brows lifting in surprise. “Carl _Manfred_ ? As in _the_ Carl Manfred, the artist witch?”

“Yes! He’s moving in with his protege son.” She takes another gulp of her drink, finishing it and handing him the empty glass. “Apparently Carl adopted him from an orphanage because he needed an assistant, but it turns out he has magic too.”

“Hmm.” Simon frowns in thought, hands moving to pack the sack with this and that. “Here, for your next leg of adventuring: there’s healing salves, sun cream, and numbing balms, and a few tinctures to pour into teas- the usual; calming, soothing, determination, and strength. Oh and this- it’s a primrose lipbalm.”

“Is it magical?” North asks, turning the tiny jar this way and that. “What does it do?”

“It keeps your lips from being chapped.” Simon laughs as North rolls her eyes.

“Here I thought it’d make any girl I kiss fall in love with me.” She sighs dramatically and flops against Simon who pokes her side playfully.

“You don’t need my magic to make Chloe smitten with you, North,” he jumps back from the table before she can swat him, “you just need to ask her to dinner.”

He grins at her and he knows, oh he knows that she’s thinking of that sweltering afternoon two months ago when she’d barged into his greenhouse and plonked the chest on the table declaring her arrival only to find a petite blonde witch instead of him. He’d newly granted Chloe, the healing witch, access to his greenhouse behind the cafe so she could make her healing potions and not have to travel to and from her home. Chloe, lovely sweet Chloe with her big blue eyes and golden blonde hair and always had a smile ready to give.

“I’m a gritty grimy pyromantic witch,” North grumbles, cheeks rosy. “She’d never be interested in me.”

“You’ll never know until you ask, North.” Simon says sagely before making a shooing gesture. “Now off my table, I have work to do.”

* * *

 

There’s a cafe on the corner of Ravenwood and Sylleblossom called Jericho run by a witch named Simon who, apparently, always knows not what you want but what you need. There’s magic baked into the pastries and brewed into the teas; there’s a cupcake iced with daydreams and a chai that tastes like self-confidence; there’s eclairs sprinkled with giddiness and an espresso that lingers with determination.    

The cafe’s old weathered sign is in the shape of a ship, and ask anyone why it’s the most popular place in town and they’ll say it’s because at Jericho you can be yourself. At Jericho you can be free.

It’s rumored that a dangerous pyromancer, a witch named North, gathers ingredients from all over the country and that the great Professor Joshua, head witch at the Academy, is responsible for the recipes. There’s even an ex witch hunter turned clairvoyant witch named Connor, reformed from his deadly ways who now works to protect the very witches he once hunted.

All of this is new to Markus, having just moved into the shop now turned studio across from the cafe; he and his adoptive father Carl paint their magic onto canvas and skin. He’s heard a lot about Jericho and its people; it’s about time he meets them too.

“I’m parched.” Carl declares, surveying the studio filled with boxes and shelves in various states of packed and unpacked. “Let’s head over to the cafe and see what all the fuss is about.”

* * *

The soft breeze carries with it new souls, new tidings and Simon looks up to see a young man pushing an old man on a wheelchair through the door. There’s a brightness around them both, a light that’s warm and deep and gentle. 

“Hello, welcome to Jericho.” Simon smiles in greeting. “It is an honour to meet you Master Manfred.”

“Oh, no I hate that term ugh.” Carl waves dismissively. “Carl’s fine. This is my son Markus and as you’ve probably seen we’ve converted the shop across the road into our home and studio.”

“You’re a very long way from Lafayette Citadel, sir.” Simon notes as he fetches menus to hand to them. 

“I needed the fresh air, and fresh sights and sounds.” The older man shrugs. “Now, you got any specials on the menu today? What do you recommend?”

Simon opens his mouth to reply but Markus cuts him off.

“How about you surprise us?” There’s a challenge in that request, a test; Markus Manfred has one blue eye and one green, and both twinkle with mischief. 

“Please take a seat,” Simon accepts with a nod, “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

He rounds the counter and places a tray on the bench; a slice of apple and cinnamon tea cake for Carl, a honey and spice poached pear for Markus, and a cup each of milk rose chai. 

Simon stands by their table attentively, waiting for them to take their first bite and drink their first sip. He watches as Carl closes his eyes and relaxes into a sigh, watches as Markus’ eyes widen and a smile tweaks his lips. 

“It’s been a very long time,” Carl begins, peeking up at Simon, “since I’ve met someone with the Sight.”

He feels the heat flush his cheeks, and he twists his hands anxiously. “Oh, no sir I wouldn’t call it that, I don’t think I have the Sight I think I just have a good judge of auras that’s all.”

“That’s  _ all _ ?” Carl cocks a brow, tisking as he pats Simon’s hand. All along his arms all the way to his fingernails are black geometric lines amidst an ever-changing sea of watercolours. When their hands touch, the watercolours crest and ebb in swirls along the arrows on Carl’s skin as if someone had stirred them. “No my boy, you have old magic in you: the kind that sees a soul’s desire.”

“That’s what they say about you,” Markus adds with a grin, “that you somehow know what someone needs without them even asking.”

Simon looks into those mismatched eyes for as long as he dares, averting his gaze when he can no longer stand their intensity. “People are being very kind. I think I have a knack for it, that’s all.”

“That’s all.” Markus echoes, his grin widening. “Thanks for the meal, we’ll let you get back to work. It’s good to meet you Simon, I’m sure we’ll see plenty of each other from now on.”

He shakes his hand firmly, and Simon manages a nod before excusing himself. A coward’s retreat to the greenhouse is what his feet decide on, and he slumps against the cabinets and slides to sit on the floor. His whole face feels like it’s on fire, and he groans into his hands.

How is he meant to survive Carl Manfred living across the road from him when Markus Manfred lives there too?

* * *

 

There’s something exhilarating about a fresh blank canvas. Markus inhales the scent of gesso and linseed oil, lets it fill his lungs and soak his blood and flood his head with inspiration. The afternoon air is thick with potential, with creativity and Markus pulls his sweater off and tosses it in the general direction of a chair.

He flexes his fingers, itching to paint. Carl makes a thoughtful hum behind him.

“What is it?”

“Your arm, Markus.” Carl points, and Markus looks at his skin. Both his arms are inked in sweeping delicate black lines that had pushed through his skin when he turned ten. He never knew why they appeared or what they represented.  Unlike Carl’s marks they never changed save for during hardship when smaller jagged lines jutted out of the tattoos; he fancied they looked like thorns.

Now, though, trailing up his right arm are blooms of brilliant blue roses.

  


**Author's Note:**

> hey fam it's me, ya girl, back with more self-indulgent sap \o/
> 
> Come scream about these two [with me on tumblr?](http://archadianskies.tumblr.com)


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